


given them blood to drink

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Blood Kink, Knife Play, M/M, Murder Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7944961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the third angel poured out his bowl on the rivers and springs of water, and they became blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	given them blood to drink

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fill for the fallout kink meme. you can find the prompt and my original response [here](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/7011.html?thread=20010083#t20010083). it's also been a hot minute since i wrote fic, let alone fnv fic, so apologies for this being somewhat rough around the edges.

Six, truthfully, has never been one to shy from death. 

And before all of this platinum chip business, it wasn’t something he much dwelled on. People die. The dust takes them. You go on. The wasteland is like that; it kills people and it will one day kill you, whether you go kicking and screaming or if you dive in smoothly. 

But being shot in the head and brought back again will change a man. He is loathe to say he _enjoys_ the chase, the hunt, the kill, because it makes him no better than a common raider. It is perhaps true that he is better suited to mercenary work, but this is the job that had come along when he needed it, and he sees no need to change that now, especially since it seems that he grows in power and influence every day more, what with Yes Man at his back and a talent for dispensing death at his fingers. He stumbled into a game larger than himself and lucked into all the right allies, and he doesn’t intend to go back to being a no-name courier scraping together a living. 

His trip to Zion Canyon is a whim, really. He could use a break and the caravan needs someone imposing, so he leaves the Strip and his plans in the capable hands (claws?) of Yes Man and makes his way down the mountain. It’s unfortunate that his traveling companions are killed, but he doesn’t much mourn them, really, and forgets them in short order as soon as the locals discover him. 

The Malpais Legate is a lion of a man. His eyes are as clear and sharp as a lightning strike, and Six watches him fiddle with guns and speak in soft tones of a God long dead and thinks that if he was the kind of man who fell in love, this would be someone to fall in love with.

They work together and Joshua’s simmering wrath is something that comes to consume Six just as much as it has consumed Joshua. He thinks of it morning and night, thinks of it when he tracks the Ghost of She, thinks of it when he puts aside his guns for something more personal, thinks of it when he takes up the scripture and tells himself it’s simple curiosity. 

And he is not alone. Joshua is ever hovering by him, watching him, lightning eyes burning on his back while he traps, while he kills, while he fights and _wins_. He catches him, once, shuddering when Six brings him a bloody trophy, his breath quick and his muscles tense. The gore smears over his bandages and Joshua’s shoulders are straight and tense with want and it occurs to Six that it’s strange that it was so easy to find him when an army has been searching for him this long. 

It’s strange that he was the first to find him. Wasn’t he?

He doesn’t think on it long--it doesn’t matter much what happens to Legion errand-men anyways--but he is aware, from then forward, that Joshua Graham is more like him than he thought. He knows better than anyone that blood thirst requires tribute. It must be fed. 

So he continues to work with him, partly from desire, partly from respect. He thinks the feeling is mutual. 

Six has been playing politics for long enough now to be able to tell when relations are too strained to go on. Soon, Daniel’s urgings to flee will become demands. Soon, something will have to be done. They’re running out of time, and worse, the White Legs know it. Their options are limited, and he and Joshua discuss them daily: stand and destroy, or run. 

The two of them have taken to late night patrols, less out of a real need to protect from nocturnal attacks and more due to a shared insomnia, and this is where it happens. It’s just luck, really, that close to the break of dawn, they come across a lone White Leg, separated from his group, moving through the brush towards their camp. 

Joshua shoots him in the leg. Six has never known Joshua to miss. He cuts his eyes at him, curious at this non-lethal choice, and finds Joshua openly assessing his response, waiting for him to make a move. The White Leg is limping away, his weapon left behind. A coward, then. He didn’t realize they allowed that in their camp, but no matter. This isn’t about him.

Six follows him, quickly outpacing the hurt tribal, gripping his upper arm and turning him in one easy motion. He wraps his other arm around the man’s neck, pulling him to his chest with his knife drawn, pressed softly against his exposed throat. It’s too easy. 

His move has been made. Joshua is trembling, he notices abruptly. His hand is shaking. Six is perfectly aware that it is a side effect of the exertion of control, indicative of Joshua’s short leash on himself. He is impressed that he has chosen to share this hunt with him; it means they are closer than Six had estimated. He will not let this moment pass. 

Joshua takes one slow step. He raises his pistol. 

“Release him.” he grunts. Six cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t want to.” He says, lightly. Joshua seems conflicted. Six takes a different approach. 

“Let me do this for you.” He says, as warmly as he would to a lover, arm wrapped around the neck of the squirming warrior, half-grin playing over his face. Joshua exhales. Drops his arms. This is his time to shine.

Six turns his head, pressing his mouth to the ear of the struggling foe, murmuring to him about Revelations, about the rivers and the lakes full of blood, about divine wrath and retribution, and he should be grateful for this language that belongs to Joshua, really, should be grateful that his profane ears should be allowed to hear something so sweet. 

Joshua is watching him. Six looks at him, eyes wide, breath uneven, and presses the blade deeper into the skin of the still-kicking White Leg. He has never felt stronger than in this moment. He could not look away from Joshua’s eyes if his God Himself commanded him to. He pulls, hard, and the head lolls back and warmth gushes over his arm but that rush, that pulse of desire, is nothing, _nothing_ , to the way Joshua takes one staggering step towards him and falls to his knees and reaches out to grasp his face as Six slides down to the ground, pulled by the limp body and his own sudden weak knees at once. 

Their lips collide with a body between them, all teeth and the feeling of dry, flaking skin and heat, heat, heat. Six can’t breathe, and he doesn’t want to ever again. His bloody hand reaches to Joshua but fall, impotent, at his side for fear of hurting him. Joshua, ever in tune with Six’s very thoughts pulls away, swipes a hand through the blood dripping onto the scorched earth, scooping up chunks of gore, too, and Six doesn’t even think when he presses them against his lips. He opens his mouth, tongue out to slurp at the liquid off of Joshua’s fingers, so out of breath it feels like he’s run a mile.

He’s hard. Almost instantly, actually, which is quite impressive given the circumstance. The dead weight of the corpse between them is shoved out of the way, though by who’s effort Six isn’t sure, and then he’s being pushed to the ground and Joshua is tugging on his pants, trying to get them down, and Six is reaching between them and doing the same, chasing Joshua’s mouth as much as his fingers as he tries to undo a row of buttons at the same moment that he drinks down the blood between them. 

But it happens; he kicks away his pants and the hand Joshua had freed of his bandages earlier is trailing over his cock, but only for a moment, before it travels further down, further down, until one harsh push has Joshua inside of him. Six scrambles for purchase, his fingers finding Joshua’s vest and clinging for dear life as three viscera-slicked fingers push into him unforgivingly, stretching and scissoring within him, vicious in their concentrated purpose. He moves his hips in response, searching for more, meeting the thrusting of the digits as best he can, chasing the pleasure until he’s concerned he won’t last much longer. He pulls back, just a bit, brushes his fingers over Joshua’s fly, unsure, and Joshua follows him, his slacks pushed away so that it is just his bandages between them. He hisses and Six is not sure if it is for pain or pleasure. He wants, he _wants_ , for God’s sake, he is half-mad with a hunger for Joshua, to be destroyed or devoured by him, in any possible way.

“Fuck me.” He says, a wild plea for something that he isn’t sure is even possible. Joshua snorts. He leans back for a moment and Six regrets saying anything, he is certain he has misstepped, he has ruined this strange and perfect moment, but cracks his eye open, just long enough to see Joshua’s cock, red and dripping with deathblood (and surely burned, it must be, but he cannot see, cannot tell), before he’s shoving inside of him and Six is arching up and groaning, snarling, pulling hard on Joshua’s vest to drag him down onto him. Rough bandages brush his cheek as Joshua leans into to bite his neck, hard, his strokes already punishing. 

Six lifts one leg, unthinking, hooking it around Joshua’s waist and pulling him closer, closer, trying to hold them perfectly together, to make them into one being of fire and lust and hunger, forever. Joshua huffs something that might be a laugh and might me a moan and obliges him, dropping his chest so that they’re pressed together, still mostly-clothed in the desert heat. 

He shuts his eyes and briefly, an image of him as a Legate under Joshua flashes into his mind. Him, with his silly leather skirt parted, bent over a metal table in a makeshift camp, being fucked in careless, punishing strokes in a tent with men around, men who could only wish to be the vessel for a killer such as he. 

He would follow him anywhere. 

In a moment of inspiration, Six reaches for Joshua’s hand, catching him by the wrist and dragging the thick, strong palm until it rests over his windpipe. Joshua grunts, leaning into the new position so hard and so long that Six begins to see stars. It’s perfect, he can tell, from the stutter of Joshua’s hips and the way his head is dreamy and wonderful. His whole body is on fire. He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t need to.

The pressure on his throat alleviates and Six inhales, eyes filled with tears, but it’s only a moment’s reprieve before he feels the hot, sharp blade of his own knife pressed to his collar bone, real and threatening and heavy. He opens his eyes (when did he close them, he wonders) and beholds Joshua, crystal gaze alight, pushing hard enough to draw blood. 

Six swears and presses up, thrusting his chest into the blade, urging Joshua to take him, to split him down the middle, to drink him up and lay waste to him. He knows he’s moaning, growling, making all sorts of obscene noise that surely someone must hear, but he doesn’t care. 

“You’re vile.” Joshua says, his breath hot against his ear. Six is far past words; all he can do is nod, nod and take in Joshua, who is hunched over him like an animal, fucking him into the hard dirt like an animal. He’s grabbing his hips and holding him in place, his thrusts so harsh that Six is certain he will have bruises in the morning that span the entirety of his thighs, and the thought itself is arousing enough to make his cock twitch where it lies on his stomach. 

He wants more, though he doesn’t doubt he could come like this, he is desperate to give himself unto hedonism, to be immersed fully in this moment, and again, somehow, Joshua reads him perfectly and slips a hand between them again, dropping the knife away from them. The bandages on his palm are thick and coarse, and it burns, it hurts, it’s painful in just the right way and Six is howling with his eyes screwed shut, his whole body spasming and tensing as he dives over the edge, coming over his own rucked up armor in thick, hot stripes. 

Joshua hisses between his teeth, stoic even now, and grips the back of Six’s head by the hairs there. Six turns his head towards him, lashes fluttering, thoughts still somehow out of his reach. Joshua has pulled out of him and is moving up his body, his goal a mystery to Six.

“Open your mouth.” Joshua commands, voice low and rough, and Six can only obey. Joshua swings his leg over Six’s head, a knee on either side, and swiftly presses the hard length of his cock into Six’s waiting, pliant mouth. He fucks him like that for only a few minutes, with Six breathing harshly out of his nose and Joshua gliding smoothly between his lips, nearly silent but for uneven breath and the sound of hands scooting over dirt. 

Where Six had screamed, Joshua only inhales, sharp and quick. He mouths something, maybe a curse, maybe a prayer, and comes down Six’s throat, still stained red with the long-dead White Legs’ blood. 

Six swallows and thinks of nothing but angels and rivers running red.


End file.
